The Bookworms
by BitShifter
Summary: Steed is at loose ends. A Fox joins the hunt. (First of stories #1-7 in my series, starting a decade ago. No need to review these antiques :) )
1. Chapter 1

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 **"The Bookworms"**

An Avengers Fanfiction

 _The first of a series of adventures bridging the year and a half between broadcast episode 3.26, "Lobster Quadrille" (Cathy Gale, March 1964) and episode 4.01, "The Town Of No Return" (Emma Peel, September 1965). At the end of the broadcast of 3.26, Steed phones an unnamed person for assistance. My story proposes the possibility that the voice at the other end was Venus Smith, and that Steed had yet to experience the events that led to his meeting with Emma Peel._

 **Disclaimer:** Some copyrighted characters have been borrowed

 **May 1964**

 _Steed is at loose ends. A Fox joins the hunt._

John Steed approached an older man leaning on a railing that overlooked the Thames. The man had his back to the river, nose buried in the newspaper he was holding. Steed walked past, then took up a position on the railing about six feet away. One-Ten got directly to the point.

"Blackpoole's been found dead."

Steed directed his attention towards the river. "What was he working on?"

"The location of some of our most secret installations suddenly no longer seems to be a secret. We need you to take over his investigation."

"I'm a bit worried," Steed said. "Mrs. Gale isn't in her apartment."

One-Ten didn't hide his irritation. "She doesn't work with you any more. Why are you checking her flat?"

"I heard she was back from the Bahamas. No longer on the beach, so to speak."

"We planted that story. Wanted to see who would come around to see her."

"Look, what's it all about?" Steed asked. "I just want to have a talk with her."

"Maybe charm her into helping you out on this Blackpoole affair, eh? Can't be done, old man. She's incommunicado. Mrs. Gale's gone to the States."

"What?"

"Some sort of hush-hush thing with MI6 and their CIA. She may be gone for some time."

"But she's an amateur! No connection with the Ministry..." There was clear disappointment in Steed's voice.

"Not any more. She's shown she has all the qualities of a top field agent, and there was a high-up chap in America who requested Mrs. Gale specifically. Have to keep up our relationship with the Colonies, you know. I'm sure she'll drop you a postcard when she has the time."

Steed said nothing. He gazed at the river.

"Look, we'll find you some other amateur to take her place, one with talent," One-Ten said sternly. "We have a few candidates already. In the meantime, I'll assign you an assistant from the Ministry."

"No, thank you," Steed retorted. "The last thing I need is some Ministry clerk demanding I fill out forms in triplicate. I'll talk to Venus."

"Miss Smith? You know I don't approve of that." One-Ten rustled the newspaper to cover the fact that he had raised his voice. "You use that poor girl terribly. She has no hand-to-hand training; you're going to get her killed some day. Last thing we need is for you to draw attention to yourself."

"She was useful enough in the Bahamas," Steed reminisced with a smile. "Quite dashing in a bikini, as well."

One-Ten ignored him.

"The girls from the Ministry have all the pre-requisite training; most of them would give anything for some field time, a chance to advance to professional status. Or I could assign you an active agent. The Minister has been thinking it's about time we paired a professional with you."

Steed frowned.

"I prefer to work with amateurs. They're pristine, can get into places where an agent could never go. I'll get Venus."

"You may find that difficult, Steed," One-Ten responded. He folded the newspaper, straightened his derby, and turned to leave. "She should be performing on a cruise ship in the Atlantic just about now."

-oOo-

Steed was studying a series of photographs of Blackpoole's body when he heard the knock. He crossed the floor of his apartment and opened the door, admiring the unexpected visitor.

A young woman of medium height was standing there. She wore brown leather calf boots, a knee-length plaid flannel skirt, and a freshly starched white blouse buttoned tightly up to the collar with a ribbon at the neck. In her right hand she clutched a black leather satchel, and a purse dangled from her left shoulder. But all of these sights faded in the light of her crowning glory, a sumptuous furl of red hair swirled into a bun and held in place with two cloisonne clips.

"My name is Rita Fox," she began.

"Penny for the Old Guy?" Steed grinned.

"Not Fawkes. Fox, F-O-X."

"Tally-ho!"

"The Ministry sent me. I'm to be your new assistant."

"Nonsense, dear girl," Steed said with a smile. "They must have given you the wrong address."

"But I was told, Mr. Steed—you are Mr. Steed? It says John W. Steed on the box—that you needed some help with—"

"Oh, not a bit of it! I'm perfectly fine on my own."

"Look, Mr. Steed. I'm the Ministry's top literature research expert. I assure you, if there's any information you're hunting for, I can find it."

"Oh, a bookworm, eh?" Steed teased.

"Literature research _expert_ ," Miss Fox tersely pronounced the words, with special emphasis on the last. She fidgeted with her satchel and pressed it close to her chest in a gesture of impatience.

"Well, the next time I need help with the library, I'll be sure to look you up. Goodbye!" Steed said cheerily, making a move to close the door.

"But what will I tell the Head of Operations?" Rita asked with exasperation. "He specifically came to me, ordered me over here."

"Charles?" Steed feigned seriousness. "Yes, that will be a problem. Come in and have a brandy, Miss Fox, and we'll come up with up a story."

"I don't usually drink, Mr. Steed."

"Call me Steed."

"As I was saying, Mr.—I mean, Steed. I'm no tippler."

"Avoid the demon rum! Well, this vintage won't bring Old Scratch to the door." Steed led her into the apartment, his hand on her arm.

Rita sat on the couch as Steed took a bottle from the bar and filled a pair of snifters. He handed one to Rita, their fingers brushing briefly during the pass. Rita was nervous; her hand trembled slightly, and she downed too much brandy on the first gulp.

"Now, tell me," Steed began, "why would the home office send you around?"

"Blackpoole had a book in his pocket when he died."

"Hence my need for a bookworm—I mean, _literary expert_ ," Steed corrected himself gracefully.

Rita ignored the barb. "It was a rather obscure book. They sent for me because I specialize in nineteenth century literature."

Steed leaned over casually and refilled Rita's snifter.

"I say, this _is_ rather fruity tasting," Rita added loosely.

"Armagnac Eau De Vie from France," Steed explained. "Guaranteed to make life's troubles look a little less troubling. What book was it?"

"Dr. Posthlewaite's _Druidic Rites Of The Salisbury Gorset_ ," she answered. "Published in 1873."

"Hardly the light reading one would expect in Blackpoole's free time," Steed commented.

Rita was starting to get a red flush in her cheeks, in a hue that complemented her hair. "Do you think it's a clue?" she asked.

"Could just be a coincidence." Steed changed the subject. "How did you get started at the Ministry?"

"Well, I spent five years at Oxford," Rita began. "I majored in medieval and modern languages, so I learned French, German, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Celtic, and Greek. Some chaps from the Ministry contacted me about being a translator, but I didn't feel ready for so much international travel."

Steed smiled, feigning interest, and refilled her glass.

"So I continued my postgraduate work in European Literature. After I completed my M-Litt, I went to Cambridge to work for a small research group and finished my Ph.D."

"Do tell." Steed wanted to keep her talking. He kept her glass filled.

"We were part of a government-funded project to archive documentation from the Crimean War and the events that eventually led to World War I. When the project ended, my contact at the Ministry offered me a job. That was two years ago, when I was 26, and I've been in Civil Service ever since."

"Someone must have thought you had the potential to eventually become an agent for the Ministry," Steed suggested.

"I suppose so. They put me through some elementary physical and martial arts training to prepare me for 'action in the field', but I much prefer to spend time in the library."

"Well, you certainly seem eminently qualified for research," Steed smiled pleasantly. "Would you like some more brandy?"

"I don't really drink, but I suppose I could have a little more." Rita's eyes wandered about Steed's apartment, taking in the equestrian trophies to one side of the couch. She noticed the model ship on the other side.

"Is that a model of the _H.M.S. Victory_?"

"Indeed. You know a little about naval history?"

"If it happened in the nineteenth century, I know it," she boasted. "Did you know Hardy was going to dismantle the _Victory_ until his wife talked him out of it?"

"So it's been said," Steed agreed pleasantly, refilling her glass. He had no idea what she was talking about.

"How many glasses have I had?" Rita asked. She unconsciously undid the collar button of her blouse and loosened the ribbon.

"A half bottle."

"Is that too much? How much does one typically drink?"

"Why, it's customary to finish the bottle, Miss Fox. Goes bad otherwise," Steed lied with a smile.

"You've hardly had any, Mr. Steed."

"Just Steed. It's also customary for the host to defer to the guest," he added politely.

"Well, then I'll have another," Rita agreed. Her hand was no longer shaking as she extended the snifter for a refill.

-oOo-

It was starting to turn dark when Steed hoisted the snoring form of Rita into his arms and kicked the door of his flat shut on the way out. As he had predicted, she was unfamiliar with the effects of brandy. She had just managed to finish the bottle before settling down for a nap. Rita stirred slightly. She wrapped her arms around Steed's neck, pressed her head to his chest, smacked her lips a few times, and then continued dozing.

The Bentley was waiting, parked at the curb. He eased Rita into the passenger seat, disengaging her arms. Grabbing a blanket that he kept in the rear seat for just such emergencies, Steed covered her up; she stirred again, took hold of the blanket, and snuggled. Steed rummaged through her purse, noted her address from her Ministry ID, and fished out her key ring. He then stowed the purse and satchel next to her.

He pulled out past Rita's bright red '62 Austin Mini. She probably bought it as a new car two years ago when she was first hired at the Ministry. She would have to come by and fetch it next morning; Steed judged it wise that he not be around when that occurred. Miss Fox would still be trying to find a way to worm into his investigation, in order to keep the home office happy.

A few minutes later he was tucking her into a four-poster bed in her small flat. He carefully set her brown leather calf boots next to the nightstand. Steed turned to leave; then with a playful grin, he removed the carnation from his lapel, and placed the flower in Rita's hand.

Steed locked the door behind him as he exited.

-oOo-


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The next morning, Steed was speeding over to Whitehall, listening to the smooth precision of the Bentley's engine. He wanted to check the inventory of items that Blackpoole had in his possession when he died. It was possible that there were more clues than just an old book. He roared into the parking lot, barely pausing long enough to flash his ID to the guard, although he was recognized immediately from his car. Since he was generally undercover, trips in person to the Ministry were rare for him; but not so rare that the sight of the large green machine could be easily forgotten.

Steed slowly picked his way down a rear stairwell to a suite of rooms in the basement of the building. The department located there must have had an official name, but to everyone who used its services, it was simply referred to as 'Cleanup'.

The man working at the counter was young. Still, he understood what to do when Steed approached and simply spoke the word "Blackpoole." The young man vanished into a back room, returning shortly with a small box.

"Here you go, Mr. Steed."

Steed tried to hide his surprise at the use of his name. "You seem to have been expecting me."

"I have access to a large number of communication channels, sir." The young man offered no more explanation than this.

"I was told Blackpoole had a book in his possession when he was found," Steed ventured.

"Yes, sir. It was sent off for analysis."

"Is there anything in this box that you would recommend to my attention?"

"Yes. This item is very significant." The young man handed Steed a folded paper flier from the box.

"The LSWB?" Steed asked, reading the letters from the crest at the top of the page.

"The Literary Society of Wootton Bassett, sir," the young man answered politely. "Also known as 'The Bassett Bookhounds'."

"You've done a little research." Steed smiled at the initiative.

"They're a bit of an elite group," the young man explained. "Mostly academicians and researchers. They meet at a small private library just outside of Wootton Bassett; the address is on the flier. There's a meeting tonight at six o'clock, so you could make it out to Wiltshire in time. But I've heard they hardly ever let anyone join. Very snooty, apparently."

"Or secretive," Steed added. "What would I need to do to join?"

"Convince them you're an expert in nineteenth century literature, I suppose. Do you have a pair of spectacles in your disguise kit, Mr. Steed?"

"It wouldn't help. The only things I've read from the nineteenth century are Dickens and Disraeli. But I think I know someone who can pull it off. Can I keep this?" Steed indicated the flier.

"Certainly, sir. By the way, Forty-six says you should stop by the Armourer before you leave. They have some new gear they're rolling out."

"Thank you. You've been most helpful—?" Steed prompted him for a name.

"Thornton, sir."

"You've been most helpful, Thornton."

Steed strolled down the hall to the Armoury. He would have to hurry to make it out to Wootton Bassett. He passed through a large steel gate and down some stairs into a heavily-bricked subbasement. The constant hum of ventilation equipment filled the air.

An older man was fiddling with some sort of timer mechanism at a workbench. He looked up as he saw Steed approach.

"You have something for me?" Steed asked evenly.

The Armourer slid off his stool and went over to a storage locker. He pulled out a box filled with hats. Steed raised his eyebrow.

"These are the latest in steel-lined headgear," the Armourer began. "Strong and lightweight alloys, useful both for protection and as a projectile."

"I'm happy with the one I have," Steed remarked. "Must I?"

"Forty-Six would be cross with me if I let anyone out of here without one," the Armourer chided. "Look, how about a nice fedora, eh? Or a Scottish tam, just right for action in the Highlands," he added in an abysmal brogue.

"Just give me a bowler."

"You always take the bowler. How can you claim to be undercover when you always wear the same thing?" The Armourer checked the box, then sighed when he couldn't find one. He vanished into the back room and emerged shortly with a bowler in his hand.

"Here you go. The weight and balance are completely different than the last model, so you'll need to practice. Why don't you throw it at the target over there." It was an order, not a question.

"Forehand or backhand?" Steed asked roguishly.

"Backhand flip. Extend your arm fully to point at the target on your follow-through."

Steed's flip was instantaneous and effortless. The bowler whistled across the room and embedded in the cork wall within a quarter-inch of the bullseye.

"I see," the Armourer said curtly, "that practice is not necessary."

Steed walked over and retrieved the hat. "And how is this model better than the last?"

"You won't be able to dent this one, I promise you. We've made some breakthroughs in metallurgy."

"Then this is the last one I'll ever need," Steed smiled.

"Unless you lose it, so don't lose it. Oh, and don't forget this umbrella," the Armourer added.

"Sword in the handle?" Steed asked. He hoisted the umbrella to his shoulder and sighted down along its length. "Or perhaps a multi-fire carbide?"

"No." The Armourer was puzzled. "It looks like rain."

-oOo-

The reading room at the Ministry was unusually quiet for such a large room. A dozen or so researchers were intently poring over stacks of books. It would be a challenge to carry on a conversation here without creating a disturbance, particularly the difficult exchange that Steed anticipated.

Since the red Austin Mini had been missing from his flat that morning, he guessed that Miss Fox would be at work. A quick inquiry at the desk had confirmed her presence. Steed scanned the room and saw a splash of red hair at one of the study carrels. He quietly approached and addressed the woman sitting there.

"Ah, Miss Fox. Just the woman I was looking for."

"What do you want, Mr. Steed? I have a headache." She looked away peevishly.

"Just Steed. I need some help."

"I offered my help. You refused. You also got me drunk, and then forsook me," Rita answered angrily, trying to keep her voice down.

"Forsook?" Steed said in feigned astonishment, rolling the strange word around on his tongue. "Forsook? Nay, my lady, I but left you in the gentle and caring arms of Orpheus."

"Your considerable charms will not work on me, Mr. Steed. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Gale. She warned me about you, told me—"

"Nothing bad I hope!" Steed interrupted, with a devilish grin.

"Cathy told me," Rita continued sternly, "that any woman who lets John Steed get the better of her has no hope of getting back in control. I'm afraid that in our brief association I have already failed in that respect, and any further contact would be pointless."

"It's not the better of you I want," Steed crooned charmingly, his mouth close to her ear. "I want your best."

"What do you mean?" Rita asked with suspicion.

"Have you read _Northanger Abbey_? _Wuthering Heights_? _Little Women_?"

"Yes. What's your point?"

"I need a nineteenth century literature _expert_." Steed emphasized the last word in much the same way that Rita had during their first meeting.

"Don't you mean 'bookworm'?" she retorted.

"I need someone who can coach me to infiltrate an elite literary society."

"Absolutely not. I don't ever want to speak to you again."

"But I thought you were ordered to help me," Steed continued. "What did you tell the Head of Operations?"

Rita flushed visibly. "I haven't told him anything yet."

"Could be a touchy situation," Steed shook his head regretfully. "Young up-and-comer such as yourself, going against the home office."

"Somehow I think that if I mentioned the name 'Steed' to them, they would understand."

"But I need you," Steed pleaded earnestly. He looked deep into her brown eyes, and could see her melt a bit.

"You just need 'coaching'?" she asked reluctantly.

"Just the smallest scintilla of your vast knowledge," Steed confirmed smoothly. "You've probably spent most of your life dealing with people such as these."

Rita sighed. "Any work I do with you would have to be on completely different footing, by rules that _I_ dictate."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Steed smiled graciously. "Just teach me the protocols of participating in a literary society, give me a few tidbits of interesting nineteenth-century trivia to drop, and I'll handle the rest. You could do that for me, right?"

"I suppose," Rita answered grudgingly.

"Just spend the afternoon with me, and I won't take up any more of your time."

-oOo-

A few moments later, Steed was leading Rita down the steps of the government building to the Bentley parked at the curb.

"What's with the jalopy?"

"We may need to make a quick getaway," Steed answered cryptically.

"From where?" Rita asked, and then added, "In that old thing?"

"It's a Bentley, just like the LeMans winners in the '20s."

"That's all well and good, as long as our pursuers are also in forty-year-old vehicles."

Steed feigned a hurt expression. "I keep it immaculately maintained. Perfectly safe. You've been in it before, you know." He smiled. "You seemed especially fond of this blanket."

A dark look passed across Rita's face. She plopped into the passenger seat and folded her arms across her chest.

Soon the Bentley was roaring down the M4. The rain predicted by the Armourer had not materialized. It was late spring, and the air rushing past the windscreen was warm. Rita had given up trying to fight the wild gusts; she had removed the cloisonne clips and was desperately attempting to work her red tresses into a single braid over her right shoulder.

"You should try a braid on each side," Steed shouted over the wind noise. "You could look like Pippi Longstocking."

Rita shot him a withering glare.

"Where are we going, anyway?" she asked. "I thought we were going back to your flat."

"What, fancy another brandy?" Steed grinned.

The glare in Rita's eyes turned to fire.

"We're off to Swindon," Steed offered casually.

"Out to Wiltshire? What's out there?"

"Wootton Bassett."

"The Pocket Borough?"

"Haven't you heard, love? They cleaned it up a century ago. One man, one vote, that sort of thing. There's a library out there I want to check."

"There's plenty of perfectly good libraries in London," remarked Rita.

"Not like this one."

-oOo-


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It was late afternoon when the Bentley pulled onto a gravel circle in front of a building with a rambling lawn. Rita guessed the library must have dated back to the eighteenth century. Several other cars were parked there as well, and students were coming and going. Vines crawled up the brick exterior of the building, which only had a few windows at ground level. A sinister-looking gardener was pruning the growth with a hand-held sickle.

"What are all these people doing?" Rita wore a puzzled expression.

There was a loud ratcheting noise as Steed set the parking brake.

"It's a meeting of the Literary Society Of Wootton Bassett," he answered. "The 'Bassett Bookhounds'."

"The Bassett Bookhounds?" Rita asked incredulously. "Wait, would that be the 'elite literary society' you were hoping to infiltrate?"

"The very same."

"Why did you bring _me_?" she asked in a panicked voice. "I'm not supposed to be here! I thought I was going to _coach_ you!"

"Indeed you shall. When you think I need help," Steed moved his head close to hers, and then whispered delicately, "you just whisper it into my ear, like this." His breath felt soothingly warm against her, and she composed herself again.

"But I'm not even dressed for socializing."

"You look stunning. Especially the hair." He playfully touched the thick red braid running down her back. "Stay close," Steed added in a low voice, guiding her from the car with her arm linked in his.

"You've done it to me again!" Rita whispered fiercely. "This is what Mrs. Gale warned me about!"

They entered through a weathered set of wooden doors. Steed leaned his head close to Rita's, and said in a low voice, "Over there. The 'Recommendation Of The Week'." Rita followed his gaze to an easel sitting by the main desk.

—-

 **LITERARY SOCIETY OF WOOTTON BASSETT**

Recommendation Of The Week

Dr. Jonathan E. Posthlewaite

 _Druidic Rites of the Salisbury Gorset_

Chapter 3

"Sacrificial Animals"

—-

"So Blackpoole was a member of the Bassett Bookhounds!" Rita whispered.

"Or maybe he was one of the sacrificial animals," Steed added grimly. "Either way, it's the link we were looking for."

Rita glanced about nervously, perhaps aware for the first time that they might be walking into a viper's nest. Steed was already striding confidently toward the front desk. Her boots echoed on the parquet floor as she quickly followed along behind him.

"Hello!" Steed greeted a stern-looking librarian seated there. "Is this the Literary Society of Wootton Bassett?" he asked in his best Etonian accent.

"They're meeting tonight," the librarian grumbled, "but they're not accepting new members at this time."

"Oh dear," Steed remarked, distress apparent in his voice. "My secretary and I must have been misinformed."

Rita's eyes flashed at the word 'secretary'.

"A good friend of mine, Dr. Eldemier—an Oxford Fellow—mentioned the LSWB to me last week," Steed continued glibly. "He said I should pop around for the discussion of the chapter from _Druidic Rites_."

"I could inform Mr. Penbrough, the organizer. Perhaps he could explain the situation to you personally," the librarian responded.

"That would be most kind of you." Steed seemed honestly appreciative. "We'll just tarry about in the stacks, soak up some of the atmosphere."

The main concourse of the library was an eclectic mix of timbers, steel rods, and latter-day brick additions. A gallery of windows near the ceiling cast beams of sunlight into the main area, but the spaces between the bookshelves were hidden in bleak shadows. In some of the darker corners, illumination was provided by bare light bulbs, probably added early in the century when electricity became available.

Rita shuddered a bit at the gloomy appearance of the architecture. Steed sensed her unease, and inclined his head towards hers.

"Miss Fox, tell me something about Druids that I wouldn't already know," he said under his breath.

Rita moved her head close to Steed's. She spoke soft and low, her lips tickling his ear like a lover's kiss.

"The Druids seldom committed their teachings to writing, so we can only guess much of the history, but they were most often described as mediators between Celtic Gods and the people. Caesar's _Gallic Wars_ is the first source to mention druids as an elite and secret society in pre-Roman England. Cathbad, chief Druid of Ulster, is one of the earliest literary references."

Rita glanced around to make sure that no one else was listening, and continued.

"Of course, in the eighteenth century, Druidism was revived by Aubrey, Toland, Stukely, and perhaps even Blake. The Ancient Order of Druids was founded in 1781. There is an important Druidic megalith here in Wiltshire, the Avebury henge. It's the largest in Europe. And I needn't tell you that Stonehenge is the principal Druidic megalith."

"Ah, but you just did, my dear." Steed patted her hand thankfully.

A well-groomed man approached them. He had dark hair and a Van Dyke beard, almost diabolic in appearance. He ignored Rita and extended a hand to Steed.

"I'm Mr. Penbrough, organizer of the LSWB. I understand you were interested in our recommendation, Mr.—?"

"Steed, John Steed. I've always had an interest in Druidic history. I claim some lineage from Cathbad myself."

"Indeed, Mr. Steed." Penbrough seemed pleased. "Have you been out to Avebury?"

"Of course," Steed lied snootily. "The largest henge I've ever seen."

"What are your impressions of it?"

"'Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?'" Steed quoted, with a dramatic flourish of his hand.

Rita's eyes went wide, first with anxiety, then with amazement.

"Well said, Mr. Steed!" Penbrough responded. "Thel's Motto from Blake. I'm happy to meet someone who concurs with Blake's history as an Archdruid."

"I've never had any doubts."

"Why don't you and your secretary step into our main reading room here?"

"Come, Miss Fox," Steed ordered imperiously, giving her a wink.

Penbrough turned towards an archway at the far end of the library. Steed followed, with Rita only two steps behind.

"Secretary!" she protested in a harsh whisper.

Still, Rita had to admit she was impressed with the smooth way Steed had taken the handful of facts she had given him and had woven them into a pattern of complete believability. And the use of the obscure Blake quote was inspired. Steed must have been exaggerating his ignorance of literature.

"It's pleasing to meet one so familiar with our Recommendation of the Week," Penbrough continued. "Perhaps you would like to recommend a book sometime, Mr. Steed."

"Caesar's _Gallic Wars_ is my favorite history source on the Roman invasion," Steed responded nonchalantly.

"Capital, Mr. Steed! And one of the best sources for early Druidic history, as well. You're just the type of discerning reader we've been looking for. Perhaps there'll be a place for you in the Society eventually."

Steed smiled broadly. Rita exhaled through her nose quickly in what may have been a snort.

"This is our main reading room," Penbrough said, gesturing grandly. "It is here that our members read the greatest literature of the past two centuries, searching for reading that is worthy of our highest recommendation. While we usually don't allow non-members into this private area, I'm sure no one would object if you picked up a volume and drank it in, so to speak."

"My secretary as well?" Steed asked politely.

"Of course," Penbrough answered with mock sincerity, "as long as she doesn't get in the way."

Steed noticed with admiration that Miss Fox merely smiled curtly. Penbrough left them, and they entered the room where the Bassett Bookhounds were reading. Neither was prepared for the sight that greeted them.

None of the readers seemed to be spending more than a few seconds on a page before rapidly flipping to the next. Many of them were regularly jotting a quick scribble or two on nearby pads. The concentration on their faces was intense. The sound of turning pages was a constant scratching.

Rita had never seen anyone read at that speed, let alone an entire room of people. She glanced over at Steed with an expression of disbelief on her face.

"Reader's envy?" Steed grinned.

"It's not possible!" Rita exclaimed.

"What do you know about speed reading?" Steed asked in a low voice.

"My specialty is locating information, not seeing how quickly I can digest it."

"The 'Hounds' seem to have voracious appetites."

"What do we do now?"

"I think we've found the leads we were looking for. Perhaps we should make a quiet exit before Penbrough returns and figures out I'm not a member of the Ancient Order," Steed suggested.

"Discretion can be the better part of valor," Rita agreed nervously.

Steed and Rita casually strolled back up the main concourse, nodding amiably to the librarian at the desk as they exited through the wooden doors.

After the doors closed behind them, Penbrough stepped out from behind a bookcase and turned to the librarian.

"If they show up here again," he remarked coolly, "kill them."

-oOo-

Steed held the door open for Rita as she mounted the passenger side of the Bentley. In spite of her earlier protests, she seemed to be developing a fondness for the old car. Steed pulled out of the gravel circle, and soon they were on the M4 heading back to London.

"I think the Bookhounds may be less innocent than they appear," Steed announced.

"They don't look all that innocent to me," Rita replied.

"Exactly. Do you have a copy of _Druidic Rites of the Salisbury Gorset_?"

"I could obtain one tomorrow through the Ministry Library, I suppose," she offered.

"I couldn't get Blackpoole's copy," he remarked thoughtfully. "But I have a feeling that any copy would do."

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Read Chapter 3. See if you can spot anything that might look suggestive."

"What are you going to do?"

"Learn a little more about reading quickly," Steed smiled.

By the time they made it back to London, Rita was snoozing in the passenger seat, her favorite blanket thrown over her. Steed debated whether or not to wake her up; then he came to the conclusion that after the day's events, any conversation with her might be less than pleasant, and would be better put off until tomorrow. So he once again hoisted her into his arms, and had soon tucked her into the large four-poster in her flat. He pulled the carnation from his lapel and set it next to the one he had left previously, now on the nightstand. She was amassing quite a collection.

-oOo-

The next morning, Steed was standing at the top of some stairs leading down into a brick schoolroom situated below street level. He could see several people sitting at desks, flipping pages every few seconds or so. He had come to the right place. A bell tied to the front door jangled lightly as he entered. No one in the classroom looked up.

"Hello. My name's John Steed." He directed his introduction to a rather jolly-looking man who had just walked into the antechamber from the classroom.

"I'm Professor Featherman." The little man adjusted his spectacles and began an excited sales pitch. "Just imagine, Mr. Steed. Wouldn't it be efficient to read _War And Peace_ in a single afternoon? Or _Great Expectations_ during a taxi ride?"

Steed smiled. "I'm interested in speed-reading."

"Oh, we don't call it that _here_ , Mr. Steed," Featherman corrected him smoothly. He gestured to a large sign on the wall with words surrounding a cartoon eye. "We teach Speed Accelerated Visual-Verbal Interpretation."

"SAVVI?"

"Just so. Would you like to see our classroom, check out some of our students in action?"

Steed removed his bowler and gestured to Featherman. "Lead the way," he smiled.

Featherman cruised between the rows of desks, proudly patting his prize students on the back, and occasionally smacking the desktops of the others. All the while, he gestured from side to side with a wooden pointer like a man conducting a symphony. Steed followed in his wake.

"Words left, words right," Featherman sang musically, "every word within your sight." Steed noticed that the motion of the pointer from left to right was in rhythm with his melody.

"You see, it's all in the peripheral vision, Mr. Steed," Featherman turned around and whispered, as if discussing a conspiracy.

"Eyes on the side of one's head?" Steed asked playfully.

"Just so. Strong eye focus abilities are the key," Featherman continued seriously. He gestured up towards the street level. "I sometimes stare out this window here, focusing complete attention on every pair of legs that goes by."

"I've often done the same thing myself," Steed agreed innocently, nodding his head.

"Visual speed and agility, Mr. Steed. In a fraction of a second, I can discern the exact knot used in the shoe lacing, the weave pattern of an argyle sock, or count the runs in a lady's nylons."

"I'd hate to be your cobbler."

"Just so. Expanding the range and accuracy of your vision allows you to see the entire page at once, rather than moving your eyes across word by word," Featherman explained.

"And this allows one to read quickly?"

"Just so. Here's a training book." Featherman picked up a leather-bound volume from a nearby table, flipped it open, and showed it to Steed. The center of the page was blank, with words alternating on the left and right margins, so that each page contained only a sentence or two. "When you can look down the center of the page, and gain the ability to read the words on either side without moving your eyes, then you're on your way to a faster reading experience," he explained.

Steed measured the progress of the nearest student, an attractive brunette. "That looks like about two pages a minute. Is she an advanced student?"

"Just so. But a man of your obvious abilities would probably take only a week or two to achieve such results."

Steed nodded at the blatant flattery. "I shall probably call on you later, Professor Featherman. I have a young red-haired niece who may be able to benefit from some instruction."

"Do you think she has the necessary discipline, Mr. Steed?" Featherman asked skeptically.

Steed smiled. "I'm working on her as much as I can."

-oOo-

Steed stopped by Rita's that evening. The red Austin Mini had found its way back from the Ministry to the front of her apartment, serving as a reminder of how he had hijacked her yesterday. He sprinted up the three steps and rang the bell. The door opened at once. She must have heard the Bentley as he approached.

"Mr. Steed," she greeted him formally.

"Miss Fox," Steed acknowledged graciously. He removed his bowler and flashed a brilliant smile. At times like this, his charm could be overwhelming. Sure enough, Rita hesitated for only a second, then stepped back and motioned him in.

"This is my apartment," she began.

"Yes, I'm quite familiar with it," Steed deadpanned, "particularly the bedroom."

Rita turned red with embarrassment. "Er—yes, well this time I'm _awake_ to show you around. Have you made any progress on your investigation?"

Steed coolly noticed the use of the word 'your' rather than 'our'.

"I met a man with SAVVI," he said mysteriously.

"He was very clever?" Rita asked earnestly.

"Speed Accelerated Visual-Verbal Interpretation. SAVVI."

"Ah, speed-reading," Rita nodded. "Did you pick up on anything?"

"Other than a rigorous obsession with legs and feet, no. But judging from the speeds that Professor Featherman's students were achieving, it's hard to believe that the Bookhounds were actually reading when we saw them."

"You think the Bookhounds were faster than typical speed-readers?" she asked.

"I think so. No one could possibly understand what they're reading at that speed. Perhaps they were just scanning for the occurrence of a particular word."

"What should we do now?"

Steed looked deep into her brown eyes. "One of us will have to start reading with the Bookhounds to see what it all means."

Rita narrowed her eyes to slits. "By one of us, you mean me."

"I've barely read Dickens," Steed exaggerated smoothly. "Besides, I paved the way with Mr. Penbrough yesterday. I'll get you through the front door, into the reading room. You should be able to blend in without any problem. You can look over their shoulders, see what's going on," he suggested.

Rita's eyes turned to fire again.

"All right, Mr. Steed." Rita used his formal address again. "You tricked me into a day-trip to Wiltshire, when you told me you only needed some coaching. Now you want me to go undercover to help you with this investigation. What happened to _me_ making the rules?"

Steed flashed her a dazzling smile. "From this point on, you're in complete control."

-oOo-


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Early next morning, Steed and Rita stood in the shadow of London Bridge. Rita's hair was resplendent, and she wore a wool coat with a fur collar to fend off the spring morning chill. Steed looked debonair as well, equipped with bowler and umbrella. Rita's ambivalence toward Steed had lessened temporarily, as they were both in the presence of their employer.

"This investigation is now top priority," One-Ten began, not addressing either of them directly, but directing his attention towards the bus stop on the other side of the street. "A secret early warning base on the North Sea was knocked out of commission last night. Saboteurs."

"What does that have to do with us?" Rita asked.

"They found this on one of the saboteurs." One-Ten reached in his pocket and discreetly passed a folded piece of paper to Rita. She unfolded it. It was a page from _Druidic Rites of the Salisbury Gorset_.

"Perhaps the killers were members of the Bookhounds."

"Don't be daft, girl," One-Ten criticized harshly. "They were lead to that location by something _in_ the book."

"What about the copy of the book that Blackpoole had when he died?" Steed asked.

"Sent it past the boys in Six. They couldn't find anything on the pages. No microdots, code marks, anything. Then we ran it past the folks at Bletchley."

"Bletchley shut down twenty years ago," Rita corrected him with a smirk.

"Yes, of course, that's what we say," One-Ten answered condescendingly. "They couldn't find any sort of code among the words of the book, or even the first letters of the words. They compared it with another library copy of _Druidic Rites_ , and could find no deviations whatsoever. No pages missing, no words added."

Steed nodded. "We'll run back to Wiltshire today."

"We need results today, Steed." One-Ten didn't look at either of them as he walked off.

-oOo-

Steed was speeding down a country lane as they approached the historic library just outside of Wootton Bassett. Rita fidgeted in the passenger seat. Steed noted her nervousness.

"Are you prepared to be a Bookhound, Miss Fox?"

"Well, I suppose it's a step up from being your 'secretary'. But I've never done undercover work before."

"You'll be fine," he smiled. "If you truly believe that you are someone else, no one will think otherwise."

"And if they do figure me out?"

"We run for the tall grass. You'll have a chance to use some of those courses they made you take at the Ministry."

The massive Bentley pulled into the gravel circle in front of the library. There were several visiting cars parked in the lawn just off the drive. The sinister-looking gardener was at work trimming the hedges. Steed set the parking brake and turned to Rita.

"When we get inside, you go straight to the reading room," he began. "I'll do a recce around the inside walls to get the lay of the building. Our best bet at finding clues will be in any offices or storage areas I can discover." Steed held open the passenger door for Rita to dismount. His hand rested lightly on her arm as they strolled up the walk to the main entrance. As they entered through the weathered wooden doors, their eyes instinctively drifted to the easel sitting by the main desk.

"That's new." Rita's breath was warm in Steed's ear.

—-

 **LITERARY SOCIETY OF WOOTTON BASSETT**

Recommendation Of The Week

Dr. Edmund R. Harrowden

 _The Field Guide to Pictish Symbol Stones_

Chapter 1

"Grave Slabs"

—-

"Ask at the front desk, see if they have a copy of this week's recommendation," Steed whispered back. "I'll start nosing around."

Rita approached the stern-looking librarian. His eyes seemed cold and dangerous as he listened to her request, but he retrieved a copy of the book from a nearby shelf and handed it to her readily enough.

Steed wandered through the stacks, checking the perimeter walls of the library. He compared them mentally with the dimensions he had estimated from outside. There were no significant differences that he could detect, no signs of any secret rooms.

Rita took the volume that had been handed to her and settled down in the reading room that Penbrough had showed them on their last visit. She had donned some reading glasses that made her look like a schoolmarm. None of the other Bookhounds appeared to pay any attention to her, in spite of her substantially slower page-turning speed. Fifteen minutes later, she had completed reading the chapter without interruption.

Towards the rear of the library, Steed spotted a solid wood door. He drifted towards it and tried the knob. It was unlocked. He glanced inside, and saw a small foyer between the door he had opened and the actual rear door of the library. To one side there was a small broom closet with cleaning supplies. On the other side, he could see the top of a wooden stairway leading down into utter blackness. He groped around inside the dark opening above the stairs, and found a switch on the right-hand side. It clicked to illuminate a bare bulb somewhere down in a cellar with an earthen floor. Steed hastily clicked it back off. He strolled back out into the main concourse and straightened the brim of his bowler with the tip of his umbrella.

Rita noticed his presence, and returned her book to the main desk. She casually strolled over to meet him near the rear of the library. Steed scanned the library patrons carefully to see if any were taking notice of Rita's actions. They seemed to be completely uninterested. Steed greeted her in a low voice.

"Did you finish reading this week's recommended chapter, Miss Fox?"

"Yes. Terribly boring really, even by my standards."

"I can imagine those standards." Steed had a wry grin.

"Just what exactly should I have been looking for?"

"I don't suppose there were repeated occurrences of phrases like 'sub pen' or 'research laboratory'?"

"In a book about Pictish symbol stones?"

"It does seem unlikely." Steed gestured towards the door at the rear of the library. "I've discovered a cellar. Care to go scavenging?"

Rita nodded. "Anything to get away from the Bookhounds. The sound of the flipping pages is driving me batty."

-oOo-

Steed was treading cautiously and silently down the stairs. Rita attempted to follow his stealthy descent, but was only rewarded with a loud squeak from one of the wood steps. She winced at the sound. There was no longer any hope of having the element of surprise if anyone was in the cellar. Steed turned around, but instead of the expression of reproach she expected, he merely offered his hand to help her down the last three steps.

"Not many libraries have a cellar," Rita commented.

"It's probably close to two hundred years old," Steed observed.

"What do you expect to find down here? More books?"

"Or _that_ , perhaps." Steed pointed to a wooden cabinet six feet high and twelve feet wide. It was composed entirely of small drawers. Beside it were several dozen bookcases, arranged in two rows.

"An obsolete card catalog?" Rita suggested.

"Maybe not so obsolete." Steed pulled open the closest drawer using the handle of his umbrella. It was filled with cards.

"What do we look for?"

"Just pull the card on _The Field Guide to Pictish Symbol Stones_ , if you can find it."

Rita leafed through the drawer closest to her to see what letters it contained, and confusion clouded her face. "They're not in alphabetical order!" she cried with some dismay. "We'll never be able to find it."

"Stand still. Don't touch anything." Steed moved past her slowly, gently putting his hand on her arm, calming her.

Rita stood still, barely breathing. She saw Steed staring intently at the drawers, as a few motes of dust danced in the light cast by the bare bulb.

"This drawer here." Steed opened the drawer and started leafing through the cards. After about a minute of flipping, he pulled one out.

"How did you know it would be in that one?"

"There's a fair amount of dust down here, and most of the drawers look like they haven't been touched in weeks. This drawer, and the one next to it, appeared to have been opened recently."

"Lucky for us they don't send the maid down here," Rita said.

"We were due for a bit of luck," Steed replied. "The cards seemed to be sorted by these numbers in the corner." He showed her the card he had plucked out.

"5013357762," Rita read aloud. "There are two other numbers below it, the same number of digits. They can't be sorted on those as well," she mused.

"Unless there are duplicate cards. Go through the drawers, see if you can find another card for _The Field Guide to Pictish Symbol Stones_ , perhaps sorted on the second number."

"That will take some time," Rita said. "I'll have to pull every drawer to see its start number, assuming they're not evenly spaced."

Steed nodded. "I'll check these bookcases. Perhaps there's something special about the books down here." He vanished between the rows as she set to work pulling drawers and checking cards.

The blood froze in Rita's veins as she heard the wooden squeak of the stairs. From the corner of her eye, she thought she glimpsed the sinister-looking gardener they had seen trimming the shrubbery outside. She spun around quickly, but the stairs were empty. She sensed motion in the darkness beneath the stairs.

"Steed," Rita whispered in alarm, "there's something down here."

"Say again, Miss Fox?" Steed called from the bookcase across from her. He poked his head around the corner.

There was a sharp slap against her right thigh; it felt like a whip cutting through the flannel of her skirt. Suddenly she was dizzy and falling, with only enough time to call out.

"Steed!"

She was on her back, staring up at the cellar ceiling. There were cobwebs between the rafters. She saw Steed come into view. He frowned at something on the floor outside of her line of sight. Using his umbrella handle, he swept it into the far wall with a thumping sound.

Then Steed was kneeling at her side. There was a sensation of something slipping past her knees, briefly lassoing one of her feet before coming loose. Her legs felt cold, and she realized that her skirt was gone. There was a ripping sound of flannel being torn into strips along the seams, and she felt the touch of warm hands on her thigh.

Rita flushed with shame as she struggled up onto her elbows and looked down to see the top of Steed's head. She regretted not having worn more sensible underwear. With one hand, she awkwardly tried to tug the tails of her blouse down to cover her indignity, but she couldn't seem to make them reach. A bright piece of plaid flannel suddenly appeared around the top of her leg, tightening painfully, and then she felt Steed's warm lips on her thigh.

"Steed, I'm not... decent." Her voice felt thick, and so did her head.

She became dizzy and eased herself back down, losing sight of Steed. A sharp biting sensation on her thigh brought a sudden moment of clarity, but the next moment seemed to return her into the folds of a smothering blanket. The action was repeating over and over again. Rita's breathing was now coming at a frenzied pace. The sounds of Steed's labors had grown flat in her ears, and a persistent ringing took its place.

"Steed," she gasped feebly, "get the phone."

-oOo-


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

When Rita's vision came back into focus, she was looking at a lovely green meadow through a wood-framed window. The weather outside had turned soft, and there was a light drizzle falling. Her head was sideways on a hospital bed; she guessed that she must be in a small country infirmary somewhere in Wiltshire.

"Am I alive?" she asked aloud, surprised at the faint sound of her voice.

A gray-haired doctor turned away from the nurse he was talking to and directed his attention to Rita.

"If you can hear yourself asking it, it must be true," he remarked gently.

"I mean," Rita said groggily, "will my leg be okay?"

"There's a touch of necrosis in the surrounding tissue, but you should recover. Lucky you were with someone who knew how to handle a poisonous snakebite," the doctor replied. "A few minutes untreated, and you would have been climbing the Golden Stair."

"What kind of snake was it?"

"Hard to tell." The doctor frowned. "Some kind of pit viper, it seems."

The nurse arrived at the bedside with a glass of water. Rita sipped slowly, gathering her thoughts.

"How long have I been here?"

"It's been sixteen hours since that man Steed brought you here," the nurse answered. "You should have seen that great green antique car of his! It must have been doing a hundred and twenty."

Rita smiled at the thought. "Is he here now?"

"He said something about 'checking back with savvy,' whatever that means. He went shopping for you..." The nurse searched through the cabinet and pulled out a bag.

"What's in it?"

"This." The nurse pulled out a copy of _The Field Guide to Pictish Symbol Stones_. The note card taken from the catalog during the ill-fated trip to the library cellar was serving as a bookmark.

Rita sighed heavily. "Anything else?"

"Ooh, pretty!" the nurse continued, pulling out a new plaid flannel skirt.

Rita couldn't resist a smile. "I suppose he knows my size now."

-oOo-

Steed was at a public call box on Marylebone. The system was set up to patch him through to Whitehall, where he obtained a direct line to Thornton.

"How's your security clearance, Thornton?" Steed asked.

"I work in Cleanup, sir. I have access to everything. I can only leave this job through retirement or death."

"I hope both of those are a long way off," Steed said. "I believe that this number has to do with an attempt to pass a secret location to the enemy. The number is 5013357762. Try it forwards, backwards, sideways, dial it on the phone, anything you can do to correlate it with a location on the secrets list."

"It will take several hours, sir. Perhaps days."

"I'll check back with you this afternoon."

"Very good, sir."

"If you do find an association between that number and a location, don't wait on me," Steed advised. "Send out the alarm immediately."

"Of course, sir."

Steed hung up and returned to the Bentley. The light rain that had followed him from Wiltshire had abated, and he decided to put the top back down. He was only a few blocks away from Featherman's school, so he decided to walk. Soon he was trotting down the stairs into the brick classroom.

"Professor Featherman," Steed greeted the instructor warmly.

"Ah, Mr. Steed. Been exercising those eyes? Perhaps you or your niece is ready to take the plunge into the world of SAVVI?"

"I was wondering—what would be the maximum speed I could hope to obtain in your class?" Steed asked.

"We have many students who read better than 600 words per minute."

"And they understand everything they've read?"

"Just so."

"How about 1000 words per minute?" Steed asked thoughtfully. "About 15 seconds per 250-word page."

"You would be a most prodigious student to achieve such a feat," Featherman confessed.

Steed arched his eyebrow. "What happened to ' _Great Expectations_ during a taxi ride'?" he asked humorously.

"Sales glitter, Mr. Steed. Of course, individual results will vary."

"Of course," Steed agreed graciously. "Would you say it was possible for anyone to read a book at that speed?"

"I should say not, Mr. Steed!" Featherman exclaimed. "Why, that's barely enough time to count the words, let alone understand them."

Steed brightened with realization. He extended his hand. "Professor Featherman, you've been a great help."

"Just so?" Featherman shook the hand offered to him with an expression of confusion on his face.

-oOo-

Rita had been left unattended in the infirmary, and she had grown impatient with lying about. With an awkward heave, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. She realized with alarm that she had overcommitted, and now had to stand, or collapse on the floor. Her right leg felt stiff and sore, but it supported her weight; she took a few test steps back and forth, one hand trailing along the edge of the bed to catch her if she fell. Everything seemed to be in working order.

She glanced at the copy of _The Field Guide to Pictish Symbol Stones_ on the nightstand. It occurred to her that reading it would be as boring as lying around in bed. She poked her head into the small attached bathroom, but was disappointed to find that it contained no shower. Staggering a bit, she went out into the hallway and wandered towards the back of the building.

To her right was a shelf with some clean towels. Deciding that she must be heading in the right direction, she tried several of the nearby doors and achieved success with the one at the end of the hall.

The room was filled with a large sunken cement bay about eight feet wide and twelve feet long. Extending from the center of the ceiling was a single showerhead, nearly a foot in diameter. Below it was a single drain grate of about the same size. At the far end of the room were double doors with square windows near the tops, leading directly to the outdoors. It looked like an area more suitable for washing cows and horses than humans. But when Rita turned the valve on the wall, the water that sprayed from overhead was suitably hot; drawn from the boiler, no doubt. Soon the room was filled with luxuriant steam, and the outside windows had fogged up.

Rita didn't want to negotiate with the ties on the back of the flimsy cotton gown, so she pulled the whole thing off over her head, and then hung it on a hook on the wall. She stood there completely naked, save for the bandage around her right thigh. She carefully peeled away the dressing to examine the wound.

She felt a surge of anger as she looked at the blackened laceration. If Steed hadn't been—well, _Steed_ , she could have easily died. She placed the bandage face up on a nearby shelf, hoping it would stay relatively clean while she showered.

Rita tottered unsteadily towards the middle of the room. Soon, she was washing away both the dirt and memory of the library cellar. She winced slightly when the water hit her wound, and this brought a sudden desire to help Steed see the investigation through to the end. Rather than longing to retreat to the safety of the library, Rita found herself wanting to bring down the men that had done this, to make them pay for her pain.

Through the outside doors, she heard the distinctive sound of the Bentley's valve train as it approached. Rita had a sudden feeling of kinship with Steed; he was on the side of the angels, _their_ side. She hustled over to the entryway, shut off the water, and quickly toweled dry. Then realizing that her only clothes were back in her room, she reattached the bandage, slipped back into the gown, and limped down the hall just in time to meet Steed as he entered through the far door.

"Well, look at you, Miss Fox. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." He tenderly touched her arm. "I brought you some things from your flat."

"How did you get into it?"

"The same way as you." Steed jingled her key ring in front of her, then tucked it back into her purse on the nightstand as they entered the room. He held out an overnight bag. "More fresh clothes." He noted the dampness of her hair. "I see I was just in time."

Rita pawed through the contents, selected a few items, and grabbed the flannel skirt he had brought previously. She turned away from Steed in order to put them on beneath the gown. When she turned back to face him, she slipped the gown off over her head, and was smartly dressed in flannel skirt and white blouse.

"Have you discovered anything in our investigation?" she asked.

Steed noticed the use of the word 'our' rather than 'your'. He approached her, gently removed her hands from the pink ribbon she was trying to tie, and quickly tied it into a perfect bow. Rita stood still and breathless as he leaned in towards her left ear.

"Word counting," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Word counting?"

"I don't believe that the Bookhounds we saw were reading," Steed explained, walking over to the window. "I believe they were counting words."

"Steed, don't be ridiculous," Rita said doubtfully. "How could you reliably count the words in an entire book like _The Field Guide to Pictish Symbol Stones_? Why, you'd be right in the middle of the boring chapter on 'Burial Customs of the First Millennium', and you'd nod off, lose count, and have to start over again."

Steed gestured vaguely, not refuting her logic.

"And that number on the note card, 5013357762," she continued. "While Dr. Harrowden is quite verbose, there couldn't possibly be that many words in the book. What makes you think they were word counting?"

"Call it intuition," Steed answered cryptically.

"Have you been able to associate 5013357762 with any secret locations?"

"I've had a man at Whitehall working on it all day. I'll see if he's come up with anything."

"There's a phone on the nightstand," Rita offered, as she put up her hair and carefully arranged the cloisonne clips.

"I'd rather use a random public call box. There's one just up the road."

"I'm going with you." Rita reached for her brown leather calf boots.

Steed picked up the copy of _The Field Guide_ from the nightstand and waggled it at her.

"Read any good books lately?"

Rita frowned and took it from his hand. "I haven't had time."

"Now you have time. Try counting instead of reading. I'll be back before you know it."

-oOo-

It took only a minute for Steed to reach the public call box. He spoke the code words that activated the patch through to Whitehall, and was connected to the main operator.

"Mount Olympus?" Steed asked.

"This is Hermes," an expressionless voice answered.

"Give me Cleanup, please."

"Who's calling?"

"Bacchus," Steed answered with a wry grin.

There was an electrical hum and click as he was transferred through the communication layer to Thornton's direct line.

"This is Thornton."

"Steed here. Any news on our number search?"

"I've found a connection, sir. If you take every _other_ digit in the number you gave me, the odd digits form 51376 and the even digits form 03572. 51.376 north and 3.572 west are the position coordinates of one of our installations in Swansea. It appears outwardly to be a textiles factory, but it's actually a missile guidance research lab. Gyroscopes, that sort of thing."

"That tears it," Steed sighed. "The enemy now knows their position. They could be visited at any time. Did you send out the alarm?"

"The instant I made the correlation, sir."

"Excellent. Quite clever of you to figure this out, Thornton."

"You did say 'forwards, backwards, and sideways', sir."

"Miss Fox and I will handle things out here in Wiltshire."

"Good luck, sir," Thornton said impassively.

-oOo-

When Steed arrived back at Rita's room in the infirmary, he found Rita sitting on the edge of the bed, virtually trembling with excitement. She waved the copy of _The Field Guide to Pictish Symbol Stones_ at him with a triumphant expression on her face.

"You're going to love me, Steed."

"More than already?" Steed teased. "What have you found?"

"I've been counting the words in Chapter 1. The first page has 225 words."

"Yes."

"The second has 320."

"I see."

"The third has only 111."

"So few?"

"Half-page diagram," Rita explained. "The fourth page has 313."

"And your point?"

"If you divide the number of words on each page by ten, the number of words leftover, the 'remainder count', if you will, is 5,0,1,3,3,5,7,7,6, and 2!" Rita announced. "What's more, the second number on the card is the remainder count for the first ten pages of Chapter 2, the third is Chapter 3, and so on."

"You did all that while I was on the phone?" Steed marveled. "Professor Featherman would be impressed."

"Now, if we only knew what the number 5013357762 meant," Rita sighed.

"We do," Steed answered solemnly. "It's the location of a lab in Swansea."

"Steed! We need to warn them, tell them the enemy knows their position!"

"Already done. They're on high alert. The instant Thornton connected the number with their location, he tipped off the Ministry."

Steed walked over to the nightstand, poured a glass of water, and handed it to Rita. She drank it down, wondering how Steed had anticipated her need.

"What I didn't know was how the book conveyed the number," Steed continued. "The idea that every enemy cell would have an identical card catalog with tens of thousands of cards seemed unlikely, so I knew it had to be the book."

"So that's how it worked," Rita mused.

"It's very efficient," Steed affirmed. "There are no conversations to overhear, no secret messages to be intercepted and read, no evidence at all that you have communicated with the enemy. Simply a recommendation on the Bassett Bookhound reading list, posted to libraries across the country. The enemy trots down to their local historical library, picks up a copy of the book, and gets an exact position by counting the words on the first few pages of the chapter."

"But how do they know what it's the position _of_?" Rita asked, confused.

"If you're the enemy, all you care is that it _was_ a secret, and now it isn't," Steed answered reasonably. "I'm sure they send some chap out to the location to see if it's a sub pen or a research lab before they bring the demolition packs."

"It's a near-perfect system," Rita confessed in admiration. "Even if we shut down the Bookhounds, we'll never know who the enemy at the other end was."

"As Professor Featherman would say, 'Just so'. But maybe we can trace it back to where they're obtaining the secrets and fix things at that end."

"What's our next move?"

"The first thing to do is get that card catalog out of their hands. It's the only tool they have to cross-index position coordinates to book chapters. That should muzzle the Bookhounds."

"When do we do it?" Rita asked eagerly.

"When do _I_ do it," Steed corrected. "You're staying here, Miss Fox. You're in no condition for field work. This isn't your investigation, remember?"

"It is now. You just try and stop me," Rita threatened. "I know a few fighting moves, Mr. Steed, and if need be, I'll put you in your place."

Steed smiled at both her show of bravado and her belief that she could best him.

"Very well, Miss Fox," he conceded graciously. "So long as your dander is up." Steed donned his bowler and gallantly gestured toward the door. The Bentley was waiting outside.

-oOo-


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Rita felt a sense of foreboding as the Bentley approached the gravel circle. Somehow, she knew this would be their final visit to the historical libary at Wootton Bassett. Even though the sinister-looking gardener was nowhere to be seen, the ancient structure seemed to radiate an aura of evil. She knew that there were men inside who would like nothing better than to kill her and Steed, and maybe dump the bodies out at Avebury along with the Bentley.

A sudden chill of fear shook her body. Rita glanced sideways and studied Steed's profile. He seemed completely calm and unconcerned, like a stoic British gentleman awaiting the arrival of afternoon tea. She remembered how he had tricked her into coming here just four days earlier. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Steed could handle anything. There would be nothing to fear.

Steed held the Bentley's door open for Rita as she dismounted the passenger side. She tried to look nonchalant, but her hand was still trembling as it touched Steed's. He looked deep into her eyes, and Rita once again felt that calming effect that he seemed to have. She followed him up the walk to the main entrance. There didn't seem to be any other visiting cars parked in the circle.

Steed looked at Rita and put a finger to his lips, indicating the need for a silent approach. Anyone inside had probably heard the Bentley when they arrived. Steed bent over and hefted a large stone pot containing a fern from one side of the entrance. He pulled the main stalk out by the roots and tossed the plant aside. Rita looked on in bewilderment. The object was clearly too heavy to be hurled any distance with accuracy. Steed motioned Rita away from the twin wooden doors, and then used the handle of his umbrella to push open the one nearest him.

Rita jumped with fright as the booming sound of shots reached her ears a half second after some projectiles had whizzed past through the opening. Steed calmly waited a second until the salvo was complete, then crouching low, with a mighty heave he slung the heavy stone planter into the opening. It skated across the freshly waxed parquet floor like a curling rock, only many times faster. Steed jauntily kicked his foot sideways to provide some after-english to his aim. Rita peeked into the door opening just in time to see the planter bowl over the old librarian, his gun flying wildly through the air towards the darkness of the stacks.

Steed cautiously entered the library and walked over to the sprawled body. The librarian had hit his head on the floor and was out cold. Rita sprinted silently over to Steed's side, alert for any sudden gunfire from the wings.

"Do you suppose there are any more like him here?" Rita asked.

"I suppose they're _all_ like him here, Miss Fox," Steed answered. "We'd best split up so we present two targets. Divide and conquer."

Rita continued her catlike advance by hanging in the shadow of the bookcases on the right side. She briefly scanned the darkness, trying to discern the landing spot of the librarian's gun, but couldn't find any trace of it. Steed strolled calmly down the center of the concourse. There was the echoing sound of a second set of footsteps approaching Steed, and Rita realized with alarm and panic that Steed was exposing himself to the enemy on purpose, expecting her to do something clever.

"Ah, Mr. Steed. Back again." Penbrough said smoothly. He held a gun aimed directly at Steed. "We'll have to do something about that. I would have thought your last visit here would have convinced you to stay away."

Rita threw her shoulder into the bookcase next to her. Her plan was to knock it over, and then the rest of the bookcases would fall, like dominoes, with the final one landing directly on Penbrough. Instead, the bookcase merely fell into the one next to it, and froze in position at a sixty-degree angle.

Penbrough turned at the unexpected sound. Steed's umbrella flashed across the gunman's wrist, and the weapon skittered across the floor. Steed grabbed the exposed wrist and executed a quick judo toss that brought Penbrough's head in contact with the nearest bookcase. Penbrough slumped to the floor, unconscious. Steed straightened his bowler.

"Nice diversion, Miss Fox," Steed smiled.

"They were all supposed to fall over, like dominoes," Rita protested. She pushed lightly on the bookcase with her right hand.

"Probably best they didn't," Steed added matter-of-factly. "The noise would alert any other Bookhounds."

"Oh!" Rita pulled her hand away quickly, but it was too late. With a loud creak, the bookcase finally reached its tipping point, and the neighboring bookcase started to lean. The sound of books hitting the floor formed a continuous rolling thunder as each bookcase went over in turn, achieving the chain reaction that she had originally planned.

Rita was mortified. She looked balefully at Steed, expecting his reproach, but received none.

Instead, Steed produced a large burlap sack and waved it at her. "We'd best get down to the cellar and empty that card catalog before anyone else arrives," he said casually.

When they reached the cellar door at the rear of the library, they found it securely padlocked.

"Looks like we were expected," Steed observed.

"Remember those classes they made me take at the Ministry?" Rita asked cockily. She reached up and removed one of the cloisonne clips, causing a single red curl to dip below her left eye. The metal fastener on the back of the clip also clamped down a collection of tiny lockpicks. After a minute of fiddling, Rita beamed in triumph as the lock clicked open.

"Why, Miss Fox." Steed tipped his bowler and smiled. "You're full of surprises today."

Steed led the way down the rear stairs, with Rita limping a few steps behind. He strode quickly across the cellar floor to the card catalog. Working from the top, he started emptying the cards into the open sack.

In a case of deja vu, Rita once again heard a creak on the stairs. This time she didn't freeze, but reacted perfectly; she ducked back under the stairs before she had a chance to be seen. There was a clomping sound as heavy boots descended the stairs just inches away from her eyes. It was the sinister-looking gardener, and he had Penbrough's gun. She had forgotten to take it when the bookcases had spilled over. A silent curse passed her lips at the thought that she had let Steed down.

Steed turned to face the intruder, readying himself for action; but eased up when he saw the gun, as well as Rita's hidden position.

"Looks like something nasty has been growing in the garden," Steed said evenly.

"You might say I've been growing some things here in the cellar, as well," the gardener said with a smile.

"Am I to take it that you are the mastermind behind this little operation?" Steed asked.

"Perhaps. And you are—?"

"John Steed."

"Mr. Steed. You've made a right mess of our library."

"I couldn't seem to find the book I was looking for," Steed answered jovially.

"Perhaps you should have tried the card catalog."

"You mean the one down here?" Steed replied. "You use an interesting filing system. Not quite alphabetical, eh? You seem to have a number for each chapter."

"You must know what they mean, or else you would not be here."

"The Bookhounds' Recommendation Of The Week is just a way to communicate 'locations of interest' to the enemy," Steed declared.

"We're just trying to expand our friends' knowledge," the gardener said innocently, "like any caring reader." He had reached the bottom of the stairs, and now he leveled the gun at Steed's midsection.

"We've spent years cataloging the remainder counts of the first few pages of every chapter of every book in this library, and sorting them," the gardener continued. "When a 'location of interest', as you so aptly put it, is relayed to us, we come down here to find the closest corresponding book and chapter. The recommendation of the LSWB is then posted to libraries across the country."

"Very clever," Steed agreed amiably. "A pity it's about to end."

The gardener laughed. "Only for you, Mr. Steed."

"Just like you ended the life of that poor girl who was with me last time?" Steed continued.

Rita was now behind the gardener, limping slowly and silently towards him. She would be no match for him hand-to-hand in her injured state.

The gun held a steady aim. "We thought you would take a hint, Mr. Steed. Now you'll be joining your Mr. Blackpoole..."

Rita was only an arm's length behind her quarry now. Balancing herself on her bad leg, she flashed her left foot viciously upwards between the gunman's legs, making solid contact. The gardener gasped and loosened his grip on the gun, doubling over at the waist. Rita propelled him forward with a boot to the backside, then collapsed to the earthen floor herself as her right leg gave out. With a smooth motion, Steed moved in, whipped off his bowler, and brought it down on the gardener's head with a resounding clang. The gun fell to the floor, and Rita scrabbled for it, dragging her right leg behind her.

Steed pulled back the hat and examined the skull-sized dent in the crown. He shook his head.

"The Armourer will not be pleased."

"I've got the gun," Rita announced.

"Well done, Miss Fox," Steed said warmly, extending his hand to help her to her feet. Rita stood, favoring her right leg, and threw her arm over Steed's shoulder for support. She looked down at the semi-conscious gardener, who had groggily rolled over on his side.

"He was the one with the snake," she added bitterly.

-oOo-

Rita was seated on the couch in Steed's apartment. Although her left leg was demurely tucked beneath her, she was forced to dangle her bandaged right leg over the side. Steed noticed that she winced whenever she shifted position. Her red hair was unusually radiant, the cloisonne clips perfectly adjusted.

"So none of the Bookhounds knew where the secret locations were coming from?" she asked.

"Apparently not, although we're still waiting on the report from our wringer," Steed answered from his position by the bar. "The locations were given via phone and the payments made in cash."

"We didn't accomplish anything, then," Rita remarked dejectedly.

"I wouldn't say that," Steed responded in a cheery tone. "We disrupted their conduit, and that should buy us a few weeks of safety, until another is established."

Steed handed Rita a filled glass.

"What's this?" she asked indignantly.

"Just a little champagne, dear," Steed grinned. "It doesn't have near the sedating effects of the Armagnac."

"I don't drink, Mr. Steed," Rita declared formally.

"We learn by doing, Miss Fox," he answered with a warm smile. Once again, the weight of his charm seemed to descend upon her. He touched the brim of his glass to hers. "Cheers."

Rita lifted the glass to her lips and drank slowly, carefully, staring directly into the eyes of John Steed.

-oOo-


End file.
